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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127884">creature comforts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities'>LoversAntiquities</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angel Wings, Beaches, Crafts, Domestic, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Retirement</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:47:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,715</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When all is said and done—when the Bunker is packed and the key left in Jody’s hand—they leave town, their belongings stuffed into the back of a Ryder van and their wheels pointed south.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>242</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>creature comforts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When all is said and done—when the Bunker is packed and the key left in Jody’s hand—they leave town, their belongings stuffed into the back of a Ryder van and their wheels pointed south.</p><p>The house is modest, to say the least. On a one-lane asphalt street sits a blue cinder block cottage, not necessarily on the beach but close enough that if Castiel walked outside, he can feel the sand between his toes. The boardwalk is only twenty steps away, and the view is unobstructed, with houses at a distance on either side. A palm tree sits by the mailbox, and the front walkway is entirely sand, overgrown with grass.</p><p>It’s quaint, and cheap, considering. Donna’s mother owned the house for decades and passed it onto her after her death, and Donna wanted an excuse to have someone take it off her hands. Dean jumped at the first chance, gifting Donna one of the motor pool’s motorcycles in exchange. All they have to pay is utilities and property taxes, and the rest is theirs. Half an acre of land, an ocean-front view, and a new home, the first piece of property Dean and Sam have ever owned.</p><p>Castiel takes the side bedroom with a window facing the neighbor across the street. He doesn’t own much aside from his bed and a few boxes, but they’re his things, collected from the Bunker’s library and on his travels. Most of them, he kept hidden out of sight, not out of fear, but because he never quite made himself at home in Lebanon. Tensions always ran high, and more often than not, Castiel lived out of his car when things between him and Dean reached a peak.</p><p>But he has a place now, a space to call his own, and he intends to make use of it. Especially with the box in the far corner of the closet.</p><p>Later in the night, after Dean and Sam have finished unpacking and headed off to bed, Castiel pulls the box from its hiding spot and pops open the lid to reveal several swatches of fabric and spools of thread, and the half-completed face of what he hopes will one day be a quilt. Pulling it free, he drapes it over his mattress, the mass of it only covering half of his bed but decorated in muted tans and browns and hand stitched in places, from embroidery sets he picked up in craft stores along the way. In Lebanon, several residents gave him their old patterns when they noticed him in the crafting section of the local grocery, and others handed over bolts of fabric they never planned to use.</p><p>Most of the unusable remnants, Castiel trashed before the move, leaving him only with the cut pieces he needs and all of the thread he could ever want. His sewing machine sits in the corner, folded into an antique desk with the foot pedal made of cast iron. Dean never asked questions when Castiel asked to bring it along, only complaining about the weight and why he had to pick <em>that</em> one instead of something lighter and less likely to throw his back out. It may be antiquated, but it works for him.</p><p>In the still of the night, Castiel works, stitching together a swatch at a time until he creates a row, roughly six feet wide and a foot tall. He keeps his touch light, pins between his lips and fingers deftly pulling the fabric through while he stitches. If anyone notices, no one comes to check on him, and come morning, Castiel stows away his project for another day.</p><p>-+-</p><p>As the days go on, Dean grows restless. Not for a hunt, but for something to do with his hands, to keep his mind occupied. Most mornings, Castiel packs up his supplies just in time to find Dean emerging from his room, fully dressed and half-asleep, with an empty thermos in his hand. Castiel doesn’t question it and wanders into the kitchen with him, waiting for the coffee to brew.</p><p>The sun comes up somewhere around five-thirty during the summer, much too early for tourists to make their way to the beach or wander the streets. This town, from what Castiel has seen, is a good ways away from proper civilization, at least fifteen minutes from anywhere with a grocery store and a fast food restaurant. It’s as close to alone as they can get without losing cell signal. Sometimes, Castiel wishes they were lost somewhere in the wilderness, just to have some time to themselves without the constant fear of something crawling in through the window in the middle of the night.</p><p>But here, the sun is warm and pleasant, and Castiel enjoys spending time outdoors more than staying in his room.</p><p>These days, he and Dean don’t talk much to each other, mostly because the words won’t come. Not that Castiel doesn’t mind. The silence is easy, and the looks Dean gives him speak more than his lips ever could. For the first few days, they stay in the kitchen, drinking coffee at the dining table within an arm’s length of one another. A week in, and Dean decides to venture outside. Castiel follows him, his coat forgotten on the rack by the front door, and walks across the lawn, sand squeaking under his heels.</p><p>Slow, oranges and yellows tease the edge of the horizon. Another few minutes, and the sun will break through, signaling another scorcher of a day. A slight chill nips at his ankles in the dark, and the wind softly gusts, tussling his hair. As they walk, Dean drinks from his thermos, his eyes tired, steps sluggish. Castiel takes his hand, and Dean holds him tight, trembling all the while.</p><p>The waves barely lap at the shore as they sit along the water’s edge, teasing the tips of their toes. Dean leans into his shoulder, fitting his palm over Castiel’s knee; soft, his hair brushes against Castiel’s neck, still damp from the shower. “Do you think this was a good idea?” Dean asks. “Coming here, getting away from… from everything.”</p><p>Castiel joins their hands, slipping his fingers between Dean’s. “I think we’ve earned it,” he says. He presses a kiss to Dean’s scalp, inhaling the scent of sandalwood and musk. “Even if it’s temporary, I think we deserve to sit in silence for a few days.”</p><p>Nodding, Dean sighs through his nose. “Thought it’d be easier, after. Like we’d rescue you and it’d just be the same shit, different day, but with you in it. But it’s…” He stops, gripping Castiel’s fingers. “I’ve never gotten what I wanted, Cas. There’s always been a string attached somewhere, and I’m still… I’m scared that I’m gonna wake up, and you’re gonna still be there with your mouth sewn shut, and I’ll never get to tell you.”</p><p>Really, Castiel understands the feeling. Part of him still expects the Empty to be waiting for him, to drag him back into the darkness. Worse, he wonders if this is all a dream, and that Dean never pulled him free and cut the wires binding his mouth, his wings. But then Dean meets him in the kitchen, and the rest of the world melts away. His orbit has always been around Dean, and Dean, his.</p><p>“You can tell me now,” Castiel says, amused. “Again. You could never tell me enough.”</p><p>A small smile flutters across Dean’s lips. “Sap.” Leaning up, he kisses the corner of Castiel’s lips, and Castiel tilts his head to meet Dean in full, only pulling away when Dean needs to breathe. After, Dean settles back onto his shoulder, closing his eyes. “What’re you working on in your room?” he asks. “Know I didn’t lug that big-ass machine down here for no reason.”</p><p>“It’s a surprise,” Castiel says. Resting his cheek against Dean’s head, he watches the sun lift over the horizon, the first rays of light visible against the clear blue sky. “I underestimated how tedious it would be, though. I’ve pricked my fingers with needles so often that I’m convinced my Grace will refuse to heal it purely of my own stupidity.”</p><p>Dean snorts a laugh. “No, I mean, I get it. Took a home ec class in one of my high schools, ‘cause I thought it’d be an easy way to find a date. Teacher taught us how to make aprons, and I had to come up with an excuse for why cleaning my gun hurt.”</p><p>“It’s jarring,” Castiel says, to Dean’s nod. “There’s no anticipation. One section, I’m pinning fabric together, and the next, my finger is bleeding and I have no idea why.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Dean brings their joined hands to his lips as the sun casts the sky in gold. It’s a beautiful thing to see in its primal form, no interruptions, no clouds to block the view. The water sloshes against the shore, and in the distance, several fins surface by the sandbar as dolphins breach.</p><p>Dean may never have gotten what he wanted, but neither has Castiel. And now, here, with Dean up against him, with Dean’s love pouring into him purely from touch alone, Castiel has what he desires, and somehow, even more.</p><p>-+-</p><p>Castiel finishes the top layer of the quilt two weeks after they move in, the worst of the work finished. Spreading out the amalgamation of fabric on his mattress, Castiel admires it, running his fingers over the patches. Most of them are plain with embroidered designs from the women in Lebanon, while others are more elaborate, with printed patterns of idyllic landscapes or even animals. One of them, at the very center, is where he tried his own hand, a scripture of Enochian stitched into a piece of tan fabric he couldn’t throw away.</p><p>A prayer—for protection and love, and one day, he’ll teach Dean to read the letters and to <em>know</em>.</p><p>Dean doesn’t emerge from bed early that morning, which is probably a blessing in itself, a sign that he’s finally able to rest. Someone knocks, and before Castiel can hide his creation, Sam walks in with a mug in his hand and his hair plastered to the side of his face. Blearily, he walks over as he drinks, standing at Castiel’s side. “Busy?” he asks.</p><p>“Very,” Castiel replies. “I’m surprised I haven’t bled on it.”</p><p>“Don’t think you’d be able to wash it,” Sam snorts into his coffee. He rounds the bed, smoothing his palm across the fabric and the embroidery, ranging from flowers to pets, to little farmhouses and homesteads with barns and rolling fields of sunflowers.</p><p>Castiel’s favorite is a wooden windmill stitched in bright blue, with tulips surrounding it in a multitude of colors. Each piece is stitched with the creator’s name—that one, he knows by heart. Margaret passed shortly after she gifted him the patch, and the three of them attended her funeral on the outside of town. Along with the piece, she gave Castiel all of her patterns, which he keeps in a small box at the top of his closet, just in case. There’s history here, of Lebanon as a whole, and hopefully the three of them will be able to treasure it for years to come.</p><p>“Why haven’t you shown us?” Sam asks, barely coming up for air.</p><p>Castiel doesn’t blame him, honestly. Five in the morning is no time for any human to be awake, and Sam does it willingly. Castiel has joined him on a run once, but most of the time, he prefers to sit with Dean in silence and watch the sunrise from their porch. “I’m gifting it to Dean,” he admits, somewhat sad. “As a thank you. You helped as well, but—”</p><p>“Yeah.” Sam pats his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “You don’t have to explain it, Cas. Trust me, I… I get it.” His eyes soften, fond. “For what it’s worth, I think he’ll love it. Did he ever show you the one at Bobby’s place?”</p><p>Dean hadn’t. The most he ever saw of Bobby’s home was the bottom floor and the scrapyard, never the bedrooms.</p><p>“He had this one.” Sam pulls his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants, thumbing through his photos. Once he finds the picture, he hands over the device.</p><p>Castiel admires the photograph of a quilt roughly the size of his, overstuffed and incredibly aged, the entire piece stitched by hand. Whoever made it spent weeks, maybe even months stitching geometric shapes together, and eventually into the fabric itself, creating a massive spiral leading from the top left corner to the center.</p><p>“Supposedly, his grandmother made it. Only, he hated her, so he kept it in one of the guest rooms where I slept. It was stuffed with goose feathers.”</p><p>Feathers. An idea crosses Castiel’s mind, but quickly he shoves it down. The sheer amount of feathers he would need would be more than he has, and he doesn't plan to strip his wings bare for a quilt. But he could use a few, just so that if he ever lost his wings, he could always know that a part of them still existed.</p><p>“It’s beautiful,” Castiel says, handing the phone back. “But why are you showing this to me?”</p><p>Sam’s expression falls, verging on sadness. “After Bobby’s place burned, Dean went in looking for it. When we were kids, we’d share a bed whenever dad dumped us off, and I guess it reminded him of when things were easier. Me too.” He sniffs, lifting his mug to his lips. “It’s creature comforts, I guess. Last year, I bought a weighted blanket. It’s helped me sleep, and I swear, I haven’t had a nightmare since.”</p><p>Castiel nods. Touching the corner, he wrinkles it between his fingers, feeling the frayed bits of fabric at the edges. “How are you, Sam?” he asks. “Really.”</p><p>Sam takes a long drink, his eyes closed. “Better,” he says, sincere. “Not the best, but it’ll get better. We’ve never really had downtime before, and I still wake up wondering if this was the right choice, if we should’ve just stayed in town and kept hunting. But I think… I think it’s better to get out while we’re ahead.” Smoothing his hair out of his face, he finishes his drink with one last swallow. “I miss Eileen.”</p><p>That feeling, Castiel understands. “She can always come visit,” he says, to Sam’s nod. “We have a spare room.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Sam smothers a yawn into his fist. “She’s actually coming down next week.”</p><p>Across the living room, Castiel hears a door open. Setting his mug atop the sewing table, Sam helps him fold the quilt into a smaller square lump, and Castiel places it back in the closet, atop the large piece of fabric he plans to use for the back, and a box of batting. Hopefully by the end of the week, he can finish. And most importantly, he hopes Dean will appreciate the gesture.</p><p>“It’ll be good to see her again,” Castiel says.</p><p>“Do you think Jack can come?” Sam asks. To that, Castiel doesn’t know. “I know he said his hands are tied, but can’t he make an exception?”</p><p>Castiel worries his lip between his teeth. “I don’t know,” he says, closing his eyes. “I’ll have to pray and see.”</p><p>-+-</p><p>Dean begins to sleep in, something Castiel never thought he’d do, at least of his own volition. He falls asleep sometime before eleven every night, and he crawls out of bed around seven or eight, unless Castiel wakes him up to head down to the beach.</p><p>A few days before Eileen arrives, Castiel sneaks into his room while Sam is out for his morning jog and finds Dean fast asleep under the covers, his head buried underneath his pillow. His room, Castiel has never seen before, at least not here. Rather than weapons, Dean displays some of his rarer vinyl on the wall above his bed, stored in frames and hung from hooks. His television sits atop one of the Bunker’s dressers, and his laptop rests idle on his desk, along with stacks of paper and an oddly shaped stress ball. Through the open closet door, Castiel finds a few unpacked boxes and all of his flannel and coats hung up on hangers, along with his suits, freshly ironed.</p><p>It looks homey, with the light streaming through the window and the warmth of the sun bleeding through. Soft, Dean snores, kicking the sheets. Castiel crawls into bed with him, pulling Dean close with an arm around his stomach and the other tucked beneath his head. For a few minutes, he lies there, with his hand over Dean’s still-beating heart as he peppers kisses into his bare nape.</p><p>Slowly but surely, Dean wakes, his heart rate quickening under Castiel’s palm. Snuffling, he lifts the pillow and turns his head, squinting at Castiel in the shadows. “Time is it?”</p><p>“Seven-thirty,” Castiel says, to Dean’s dismay. “Sam should be back any time.”</p><p>Dean hums and rolls over. The pillow falls, smothering them underneath, and Castiel would laugh if Dean’s mouth weren’t on his own. He tastes stale, but Castiel ignores it, too enamored with Dean’s kiss to care about morning breath. Dean is pliant in his arms, his movements loose and unhurried. A palm skirts up Castiel’s ribs beneath his shirt, then back down, and Castiel shudders, biting back a moan.</p><p>Of the few kisses they’ve shared in the last few months, this is by far the best, purely from proximity. Dean holds him close, and Castiel dovetails their legs, their bodies pressed flush. Idle, Castiel trails his fingers down Dean’s spine, eventually settling his hand over the small of his back and teasing his waistband. The temptation is palpable, to reach down and cup him beneath his briefs, to feel the soft swell of his flesh.</p><p>Dean, however, is no stranger to giving in without a second thought. Castiel gasps as Dean slides into his sweatpants, then lower, past his waistband and into his boxers. His tongue teases the seam of Castiel’s lips as Dean draws them closer, to where Castiel can feel a warm firmness pressed against his own. How far this will go, he doesn’t know, but doesn’t fight it, so long as Dean keeps kissing him, keeps holding him like he never plans to stop.</p><p>Pinning him to the mattress is easy, especially this early. Tossing the pillow aside, Castiel straddles Dean’s thigh just as Dean grapples with his shirt, rucking the fabric up to expose Castiel’s pecs. Heated, Castiel kisses down the line of Dean’s throat, palming his chest as he descends. Dean responds beautifully, his voice little more than a moan, his body arching into Castiel’s hands, aching for his touch. And Castiel feeds him, sucking kisses down his stomach as he sneaks beneath the sheets, until the darkness consumes him and all he knows is Dean’s warmth and skin—</p><p>Someone knocks. Dean pulls the sheets tight, like the man-shaped lump underneath isn’t enough of a giveaway. “Dean?” a familiar voice calls out. Not Sam, but younger, and Castiel’s heart jumps, his blood freezing in his veins. “Dean, have you seen Castiel?”</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Dean hisses and stumbles his way out of bed, in search of his robe. Castiel crawls out after him, pulling his shirt down and willing the hardness in his pants to subside. “I thought he said he wasn’t coming back.”</p><p>“It appears he’s changed his mind,” Castiel murmurs. While Dean curses to himself, Castiel answers the door. On the other side, Jack stands, his confusion turning to excitement at first sight. “Jack.”</p><p>“Hi, dad,” he says with a smile. He falls into Castiel’s arms without preamble, and Castiel embraces him in return, patting between his shoulder blades. Dean comes into view seconds later, looking under-caffeinated and more than frustrated, but he accepts Jack’s hug anyway. “I heard your prayer.”</p><p>Dean shoots Castiel a look, his brows raised. “Oh, so you’re answering prayers now?” he asks, not quite an accusation.</p><p>Jack shrugs and looks between them, his smile neutralizing. “I originally planned to let you live without any interference, but I feel… lonely, by myself. The angels are nice, but they’re not my family.”</p><p>Solemn, Castiel nods. At his side, Dean’s shoulders slump. “Well, you got a place here,” Dean says, patting Jack’s shoulder. Castiel has the sneaking suspicion they need more bedrooms. “Being God not all it’s cracked up to be?”</p><p>“It’s nice,” Jack says, indifferent. “I’ve been working on rebuilding it. Naomi showed me what the current layout is, and it’s… depressing. Repeating the best moment of your life? Humans were promised free will, but in the afterlife, they have nothing, just a scenario that they’re trapped in. That’s not the life anyone should live after they’ve passed.”</p><p>It isn’t. But that was the plan Chuck set out, and none of the angels questioned it, even now.</p><p>“Can I run some ideas by you?” Jack asks, rocking on his heels. “I have a plan, but I wanted to ask you and Dean, and Sam. Where is Sam?”</p><p>“Running, like an idiot,” Dean groans. He rubs his face, then pats the small of Castiel’s back. “You want the human perspective? Whatever you do’s gonna be better than what’s going on right now,” and Dean goes on, taking Jack by the shoulder and pushing him into the kitchen.</p><p>Castiel follows, enamored with Dean’s words and wants, and wonders if Jack can truly change the face of Heaven as they know it. Certainly, he hopes so, for Dean’s sake.</p><p>-+-</p><p>
  <em>Darkness. So dark, that Castiel can’t see his own hands in front of his face. At first, he wondered if he had eyes, if the Shadow ripped them out as soon as they dragged him into the abyss. But before he could question it, he always slipped back under, the blissful quiet of nothingness washing over him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It is peaceful, really. An adequate resting place for a creature who for centuries heard all, felt all, saw all. Now, Castiel ceases to be, until his consciousness slips and he opens eyes his to the nothingness that is. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It must be days, or months—maybe centuries—but Castiel exists intermittently, without sight, without hearing. Until all at once, a noise rings out, rustling through his wings, resounding in his Grace so loudly that he can’t help but gasp. His mouth aches, skin ripping, and his wings beg to expand. Something keeps him pinned, immobile, like a butterfly on display.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Darkness creeps in again, dragging him under deep enough to keep him complacent. But the presence is still there, looming, edging closer. At one point, something touches his face, whispers his name, but he can’t open his eyes, can’t do anything but rest in the ether. The voice beckons him, and hand cradle him, thumbs swiping under his eyes. He knows that touch, knows it deep within the core of his Grace—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that alone pulls frees him, sends him into the arms of the man he swore an oath to on the day he dragged him through the circles of Hell. That same man holds him, whispering words Castiel can’t quite hear, but understands. “I got you,” Dean says, dragging Castiel to his feet. “I got you, Cas. You gotta walk, you hear me? Run if you gotta, just—We gotta get out of here, before it wakes up.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Castiel follows him on instinct, Dean’s hand in his, dragging him through the nothingness. The Empty doesn’t change, and for a long few minutes, he wonders if this is a dream, another elaborate memory his mind has created to comfort him as he slowly dies. But Dean is warm, juxtaposed against the frigid chill of darkness, and Castiel gravitates toward him, drawn in like a moth to the flame. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A light appears—a beacon, and Dean runs toward it, pulling Castiel along. Looking back, Castiel expects to see the Shadow’s gelatinous form gaining on him, picking up speed. Nothing—all Castiel sees is nothing, and then a brilliant white light. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Drool matted to his cheek, Castiel sits up, pulling a part of the quilt backing with him. Rubbing his face, he sets the fabric back in place and smooths his hand over the damp spot, about the size of his palm; he cheats and spends an ounce of Grace to dry the stain, leaving behind fresh cotton.</p><p>Dreams. The last time Castiel dreamt was years ago, when Metatron ripped the life from him and left him broken and alone in the middle of nowhere. Only then, his dreams were nightmares, with monsters looming around every corner, and more often than not, a blade in Dean’s hand, held over his throat. Blinking, Castiel touches his lips, tracing the spots where the Shadow bound him to keep him from talking. It worked—too well, and nights like tonight, he can still feel the jagged bits of his own broken blade shoved into his mouth, sewing him shut.</p><p>His wings sag in the space where he keeps them hidden, arching over his shoulders and draping across his lap. Idle, he strokes through the feathers until the memory fades and his heart settles. Dean would know what to do—but Dean is also asleep, and leaving to find him would mean walking past where Jack is in the living room watching television. Like the old days where they couldn't sneak around until everyone was asleep.</p><p>Castiel gives himself another minute to reflect and breathe before returning to his task. Gathering both the quilt’s front and the thick backing, Castiel runs the flattened edges beneath the needle, pumping his foot as he goes. He moves slower than usual, making sure that the thread stays connected before moving to the next stitch. The monotonousness of it takes his mind off of the memory, his concentration solely on making sure the needle doesn't break.</p><p>It takes a good hour to connect three of the sides, leaving only the bottom unsewn. Retracting the needle, Castiel pulls the quilt off the table and turns it inside out, revealing the finished side of the fabric, all of the frayed edges hidden inside. Tomorrow night, he’ll unwrap the batting and stuff the blanket, and hand-sew the rest closed.</p><p>But first, he needs Dean’s help.</p><p>-+-</p><p>“Run that by me again?” Dean asks, his eyes closed where he reclines in the bathtub.</p><p>Sitting on the toilet lid, Castiel admires him, how utterly peaceful he looks half-submerged in near-scalding water, his skin pink and the lines around his eyes relaxed. He reaches up to scratch his nose, then flicks water in Castiel’s direction, not even bothering to look.</p><p>“I need someone to groom my wings,” Castiel says, his gaze falling to where the water meets Dean’s pecs. “I would myself, but I don’t have nearly enough hands, and as it is, I can only each what’s closest to me.”</p><p>Humming, Dean sinks, his knees breaching the surface. Water laps at his chin, covering his ears as he wets his hair. Sunlight pours in through the window, glass closed to keep out the worst of the mid-morning heat. Said light illuminates the bright blue tiles on the floor and halfway up the walls, and the clawfoot tub Dean inhabits, and where he drapes one leg over the edge, dripping water onto the floor. Castiel takes him by the foot, rubbing circles over where Dean once shattered his ankle, during the time where Castiel couldn't remember his own name.</p><p>Sighing, Dean leans his head back against the porcelain, red splotches on his neck visible, vaguely resembling teeth marks. Castiel’s teeth, from the morning before. Pride fills him, seeing Dean wear them so proudly, without a care otherwise. “How’re they doing?” Dean asks, looking at him through one half-open eye. “After the whole…”</p><p>“They’re fine.”</p><p>To illustrate, Castiel pulls his shirt up over his head and allows his wings to spill free, the prismatic mass of feathers draping across the floor and over the tub. With slightly more life in his eyes, Dean reaches out to touch, running his fingers through the feathers as the sun casts rainbows across the vanes. Most of the hellfire faded years ago, with the new growth replacing the old, blackened feathers save for a few spots. Those, Dean treats gently before he plucks them free, letting them float around his knees.</p><p>For a while, Castiel sits there, wincing with every tug. “I meant in bed,” he says after a moment, and Dean gives him a look, his gaze absolutely lecherous.</p><p>Dean pulls the plug with his toes and stands in all of his glory. Castiel can’t help but stare, at the hairs dusting his chest, to the trail leading further south below his navel; his length sags, limp, and Castiel resists the urge to touch it. Scars decorate his stomach and his hips, and water cascades from his thighs. Warmth radiates off him, drawing Castiel in.</p><p>The first kiss, Castiel tastes the soap on Dean’s lips and spearmint on his tongue. Dean clings to him, pulling his feet from the bath and falling into Castiel’s orbit. Instinctively, Castiel’s wings wrap around him, urging him closer, as close as he can get. Dean burns, fever-bright, and Castiel can’t help but touch him, anywhere and everywhere, namely the curve of his ass where it meets his thighs. With both hands, Castiel lifts Dean up while Dean flails for balance, his arms clamped around Castiel’s neck and his thighs clamping around his ribs. Painful, but not enough to force him to let go.</p><p>Grinning, Castiel carries him out of the bathroom and back into Dean’s room, where he deposits him onto the mattress. This time, he locks the door before climbing into bed with him, welcomed back into Dean’s eager arms. Water clings to his throat and behind his ears where Castiel kisses him, sucking fresh marks while Dean pets through his wings, nails raking across the vanes. Shivers run down the length of his spine and spread through to the largest of his feathers, all of them casting light across the bed and onto the floor. Rainbows dance across Dean’s face, the green of his eyes sparkling.</p><p>He’s beautiful—absolutely ethereal, and Castiel can’t help but love him.</p><p>At some point, Dean manages to flatten him onto the mattress, straddling Castiel’s hips while he roams Castiel’s wings with his hands, his lips, his tongue. The last one sends a full body shudder down to his toes; his mouth falls open, a rough moan rushing from his lungs. “There we go,” Dean chuckles, sucking a feather into his mouth. “Found the spot.”</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel whines, tugging Dean’s hair by the root. “That’s not what I meant—”</p><p>“I’ll get there,” Dean hushes, smiling with all his teeth. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you patience?”</p><p>“I have patience,” Castiel mumbles. He turns his wrist, and Dean’s lips part, eyes hooded. “You’re just a master of temptation.”</p><p>Another grin. “Well,” Dean says, dropping his head to Castiel’s wings once again, “wouldn’t be the first time I’ve tempted you.”</p><p>No—No, it wouldn’t.</p><p>-+-</p><p>Sam and Jack went out for a stroll across town an hour ago. Technically, they could be back any minute, or it could be the rest of the day. But as far as Castiel is concerned, this might as well be the first time he and Dean have been alone in weeks, and no one is around to listen in.</p><p>In fact, all Castiel can hear is Dean’s soft pants in his ear and the slick sound of their bodies as they converge. Around their knees, feathers litter the bed. Castiel’s wings fan out, offering themselves to Dean’s touch. And Dean touches them, gripping the muscles of Castiel’s top arch as he sits up, taking Castiel deeper, so much deeper. Castiel’s eyes roll back, his lips between his teeth as Dean lifts his hips, then slides down, engulfing him in warmth.</p><p>“Should’ve done this years ago,” Dean mumbles, surprisingly coherent considering how hard he shakes. His thighs strain, biceps threatening to give out, and between his legs, his length throbs, precome spilling from the tip in a thick string. Castiel wraps his fingers around him, feeling Dean twist and writhe with sensitivity. He clenches, head bowed as he slows to a stop.</p><p>All the while, Castiel strokes him, taking note of Dean’s breath and the flex of his fingers. “It might have been counterproductive to our objectives,” Castiel hums. Slicking his fingers, he presses his thumb to the head of Dean’s cock, rubbing the slit until he moans. “I saw the look in your eyes, and I felt how much you wanted me, but I couldn't give you what you wanted. You wanted to be owned by me, you wanted to be on your knees for me—”</p><p>He gives Dean a sudden stroke, and Dean shouts. “Yes,” he groans, clenching his fists. “Yes, god, <em>yes</em>—”</p><p>“And I would’ve let you.”</p><p>By the hair, Castiel pulls Dean in for a kiss, one Dean returns with fervor. He shifts his hips, pulling off of Castiel’s length before lying flat on the mattress, legs parted in an invitation Castiel can’t refuse. Sitting up, he settles between Dean’s thighs and hoists him into his lap before pushing inside, into the blissful warmth Castiel knows all too well. Dean braces his palm against the headboard as Castiel moves, cradling Dean’s hips in his hands. Slowly, at first, easing Dean into it while Dean strokes himself to the same rhythm.</p><p>Kissing Dean has always been easy, but especially now, with his mouth pliant and his body relaxed, exhausted from working his way through two orgasms. Now, Castiel takes over, crowding Dean into the sheets as he thrusts, quicker now, panting into Dean’s mouth. “I don’t know why, but the moment I saw you, I lusted for you,” he says. “I wanted to feel your body against mine, I wanted you to bend to me.”</p><p>“Kinda thought that’s what I’m doing,” Dean laughs—then shouts, his back scooting up the bed. “<em>Cas</em>—”</p><p>“Not quite,” Castiel chuckles. His wings expand, shielding them in a cocoon of light. “I want you to offer yourself to me. Only, at the time, I confused lust for loyalty. But you’ve given me both.” A kiss, and Castiel sits up, one hand gripping the headboard, the other placed square between Dean’s pecs. Dean’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open. “And I still want more.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t answer him with words—he shouts, loud enough to alert anyone if they were home. But Castiel takes advantage of their solitude and pins Dean into the sheets, his pace brutal, sending Dean further and further up the mattress with every thrust. Dean braces his hand against the headboard, using the other to touch himself while a string of curses fall from his lips. Wood thumps against the wall and the bed frame creaks, in sync with Castiel’s own pants, the words spilling from his lungs, some of which he hasn’t heard in centuries.</p><p>All from Dean—all because of Dean.</p><p>Dean kisses him—or, bites him, really, but Castiel can’t bring himself to care, not while he climbs higher, brought to the verge by Dean’s touch and by his heat, how easily he gives in. His touch alone could tempt even the most chaste of creatures into sin, and Castiel gave in without hesitation, enrapt by the light of his soul, by the adoration in his hands. Orgasm feels like a blessing, and Castiel basks in it, his wings spread to their full breadth, his hips driving in, as deep as he can go. Dean praises him, and Castiel falls, sinking, seeking Dean out at his core.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Dean whispers. His hands travel, caressing his face, kneading his biceps, all to ease him back into his skin. Winded, Castiel sucks in air, tasting the sweat from Dean’s throat. “You’re good, you did good.”</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel pants, and Dean laughs, ruffling his hair. “Dean…”</p><p>“Yeah.” Kissing his temple, Dean leans up, urging Castiel to pull out. Maybe—all Castiel knows is that Dean is touching him, and Dean is pushing him onto his back, much too far away from where he wants to be. Lips touch his own, so light that Castiel barely feels them. “First time?”</p><p>“Hardly,” Castiel huffs. “I think I experienced nirvana.”</p><p>Out of all the sounds in the universe, Castiel treasures Dean’s laugh the most. “Buddy, that makes two of us.”</p><p>-+-</p><p>Dean looks beautiful in the sun, his skin shining with the afterglow and his body light, unhindered. Standing in the surf, Castiel looks back on occasion, at the man lying on a towel in the sand, sunglasses on his face and every inch of him slathered in sunscreen. Farther into the water, two snorkels bob; Jack surfaces, holding a sand dollar the size of a baseball, and Sam comes up with a handful of kelp.</p><p>The utter peace of the moment doesn't escape him. Nearly three weeks here, and Castiel still can’t believe that this is their reward, after all of the pain and torture, after all of the betrayal sleepless nights, that they’re allowed to live, that they’re allowed to <em>be</em>. Part of him still expects the Shadow to emerge from the depths and take him once again, or for Chuck to come back at full power and smite him just for the hell of it.</p><p>But nothing happens. In nothing but a pair of swim trunks, Castiel stands, water lapping at his hips and salt in the air. His wings glimmer in the sun, visible to only himself and the man rising from the sand, making his way into the surf. Arms wrap around his middle, drawing him in. Dean blows a raspberry into Castiel’s feathers, his joy infectious. “What’ll it take to get you to rent us some jet skis?”</p><p>Castiel glances over his shoulder, his brow pinched. “Have you ever driven one?”</p><p>“Yeah, once.” Dean blows into his feathers again, an utterly strange feeling that Castiel can’t decide if he likes or not. “I only fell off twice. C’mon, you, me, we can even see the dolphins you keep checking out.”</p><p>Rather than let Castiel reply, Dean kisses up the knots of his spine until he reaches a spot behind his ear, where he bites a mark; Castiel gasps, embarrassment flushing his face. “Dean,” he says, despite Dean’s laughter and the hands steadily creeping their way southward under the water. “Your brother’s watching.”</p><p>“Let me have my moment,” Dean whines. “C’mon. Jet skis, Cas. It’ll be fun, wind in your hair, you’ll get to see me bust my ass.”</p><p>From the bottom of his lungs, Castiel sighs, his body held up solely by Dean. “You’re exhausting,” he mutters, much to Dean’s amusement. “We could take a nap instead.”</p><p>“Nap later.” His nips turn to kisses, peppered across his shoulder and his wings. Castiel offers him space each time, expanding each wing to its full span while Dean nuzzles his face into them, content. “Just wanna spend time with you before Eileen gets here. I just… I just got you back.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Reaching up, Castiel cups the back of Dean’s head. Dean holds him tighter, hiding a sniffle in the curve of his throat. Sometimes, he forgets that Dean is a man in need of comfort from wherever and however he can find it. And now that he can have it—that they both can—Castiel can’t bring himself to deny Dean anything, even something as simple as an hours’ worth of entertainment. If he could have his way, Castiel would keep Dean in bed all day, buried under blankets and oblivious to the rest of the world.</p><p>He could, and Dean would probably let him. But Dean is restless at best, unsure of what to do with himself now that the world is in his grasp. With him, though, Castiel has his anchor, forever tethered to wherever Dean wants to go. “It’s okay,” Castiel whispers above the sound of crashing waves. “It’s okay, Dean.”</p><p>Eyes wet, Dean nods. “I’m good,” he says, just as quiet. “Better with you here.”</p><p>Beneath the waves, Castiel squeezes his hands. <em>I’ve always been here</em>, he thinks. <em>And I always will be</em>.</p><p>-+-</p><p>Castiel finishes the last stitch around three in the morning, his fingers covered in Band-Aids and patience wearing thin. For some ungodly reason, he decided to use the canister of buttons Dean found in one of the closets, sewing them into every spot where four patches meet. About thirty in total, but by the tenth, Castiel regrets ever taking on the project in the first place.</p><p>With the quilt spread across the bed, Castiel cuts the string and nearly hurls the scissors and needle across the room in exasperation. It’s finished—after weeks of work and too many days collecting fabric back in Kansas, it’s finally finished, and surprisingly free of blood considering the state of his fingers. Part of him begs for rest, to burrow under the quilt and to never come out. The other, more rational part of his brain tells him to get up, and to take the blanket with him.</p><p>Across their home, Sam and Eileen are asleep, and Dean is no doubt unconscious. Jack left later the following evening, the loss of his laughter ever-present.</p><p>It’s quiet. And with frustration roiling in his gut, Castiel crawls out of bed and folds the quilt over his arm. Gingerly, he steps across the hardwood floors and makes his way to Dean’s room, turning the knob without a sound. Inside, Dean sleeps on his side, turned toward the moonlight shining through the slit in the curtains. Like so many motels across the country, so many rooms where he watched over Dean while he rested.</p><p>Waking him would be ill-advised. Instead, Castiel drapes the quilt over Dean’s prone form and worms his way beneath the sheets, pressed up against the warm expanse of Dean’s bare back. Dean stirs, just barely. “Sleeping,” he mumbles.</p><p>“I know,” Castiel says. “Go back to bed.”</p><p>“’kay,” Dean slurs, and nods off, dead to the world.</p><p>For a good few hours, Castiel drifts, vaguely aware of Dean’s body close to his, but nothing else. All that exists is Dean’s skin and his quiet snores, and the cold feet tangled between his own. The sun rises, and through the curtains, the early morning breeze rushes in, easing the sweat prickling at his nape.</p><p><em>I should’ve done this in the winter</em>, Castiel thinks. Another time when the temperatures in the afternoon aren’t enough to roast him alive. At some point, Dean sits up, slipping out of Castiel’s arms, and Castiel barely manages to hold back his whine before it’s out. A hand comes to rest in his hair, a reminder that Dean is still there, just—observing.</p><p><em>He knows</em>.</p><p>“This why I was sweating all night?” Dean asks. Squinting, Castiel looks up at him, at the sun gracing his shoulders and his hair pointed in every direction. He’s beautiful—always is, but especially now, with wonder in his eyes. “You made a blanket?”</p><p>Castiel sits up and shows Dean his fingers, all of them covered by multiple Band-Aids. They should be healed by now, but at the time, it was easier to protect himself from pricking himself again. “I had help.” He nudges Dean’s shoulder. “Most of these were from some of the people we knew in Lebanon. A few”—he stops to pet over the centermost patch, adorned with a tan button at the center, from the lowermost button of his coat—“are mine.”</p><p>The Enochian stitching is rough under his fingertips; Dean touches it as well, tracing the shape of a feather trapped within. “That why you let me groom you, huh?” Dean joshes, his smile reaching the corners of his eyes.</p><p>“I wanted this to be my gift to you,” Castiel explains. Dean’s smile falls, and Castiel knows what he feels, how unworthy he is of such a thing. “Dean.” He takes Dean’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling him into a kiss. “You saved me. You did the impossible and rescued me, and I can never show you just how grateful I am in words alone. I plan to spend my life with you, and if ever comes a time that I’m not by your side, then I want to leave this for you, to remember me by.”</p><p>“Cas,” Dean says, but Castiel shakes his head.</p><p>“This is our home now,” Castiel whispers. “I love you, Dean. I want you to know that.”</p><p>Dean closes his eyes, a tear slipping free. Castiel kisses it away, tasting the salt on his tongue. “You didn’t have to make me a quilt to tell me that,” he says, his laugh falling flat.</p><p>“You’re right, I didn't.” Castiel kisses his eyelid. “You deserve good things, Dean. Even if it’s something as simple as this, it’s worth the effort if it’s for you.”</p><p>Dean tastes like sadness, like adoration. Castiel swallows his tears, chasing them with every kiss. Heat bubbles just under his skin, but he ignores it, too enrapt with Dean’s touch, with his love as they sink, engulfed by the bed linens and the quilt. Later, Castiel will explain the significance of each patch and what his own means, and he’ll drag Dean into the shade of his wings until Sam wakes them.</p><p>But later is far in the future, and in the now, Castiel basks in the one he loves, his Grace singing with joy.</p><p>“Whatever Jack’s got planned for Heaven,” Dean says in a lull, eyes half-lidded, “I don’t wanna see it for a long, long time.”</p><p>Castiel smiles and touches his cheek. Dean still has a good number of years left in him—they both do, God willing. “Neither do I.” He seals it with a kiss. Dean’s soul reaches for him, and Castiel indulges it, sweeping Dean into his arms, as close as he can, and even more.</p><p>Heaven is a long time from now, and it can wait, because this—this is what Castiel wants. Dean is his—and he is Dean’s, for the rest of eternity. <em>Until the very end</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! This is dedicated to the 30x30 quilt I made last week and repeatedly stabbed myself with multiple needles in the process. Unlike Cas, I did bleed on mine! I just wanted to write something sappy and hopefully I succeeded! I love them ;A;</p><p>I'm on <a href="http://tragidean.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> and <a href="http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity">twitter</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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